Episode 9
After kicking Lionel out, Lindsay fanned her flushed face and plopped down onto the cloth where baskets of ingredients were stacked.
Getting tempted twice in a single day, something she’d never experienced before, had completely drained her strength.
[You’re weak against that guy, meow.]
The cat jumped down from the cat tower and sat beside her.
Seeing Nero plop down on the cold floor, Lindsay grabbed a soft cushion from the tower and slid it under his round butt.
“How am I supposed to stay strong when he’s got a face like that, Nero?”
The cat looked at her with pure disappointment.
And honestly? Fair enough.
Lindsay had seen countless beautiful witches in her time, yet even she couldn’t help but admire Lionel’s beauty.
He had that almost androgynous kind of charm.
The truth hit her: it wasn’t that she had no chances at romance—she’d just never found anyone who caught her eye.
That’s why she’d never taken anyone seriously as a partner.
Now she knew better.
She started finishing up the ingredient prep Lionel had left undone.
[Looks aren’t much different from the other guys who came sniffing around. So why are you weak to this brat?]
“You just have impossible standards from staring at yourself in the mirror all the time. Everyone looks like a squid to you.”
[That’s you too, isn’t it?]
“Don’t say gross stuff. Just help me with these ingredients.”
Weak against compliments, Lindsay muttered while shoving the basket toward Nero.
The cat flicked his tail, inspecting the rest.
Out of ten baskets, four still weren’t processed.
Then, black hands rose up from the floor, each grabbing a basket and dumping the unprepared ingredients onto the cloth.
Lindsay muttered as she watched the fast-moving, shadowy hands work.
“Wouldn’t kill you to help like this all the time.”
[And yet, when I do help, I don’t hear a single ‘thank you.’ So why bother?]
At once, the black hands froze and flopped onto the ground like dead fish.
“Ah, wait, wait—! Nero, almighty Nero, thank you so much! Please keep helping me!”
[Next time, say thanks first, meow.]
“Y-Yes, of course, obviously.”
She rubbed her palms together like a pathetic servant.
When Nero curled up and shut his eyes, Lindsay stopped groveling and sighed.
Why was there no magic spell for ingredient prepping?
As she watched the black hands bustle around, her eyes got misty with frustration.
Just then, a feather-light flower drifted down from the ceiling—it was a Windbird Blossom.
Seeing its fresh green color, Lindsay realized she’d forgotten to tell Lionel something:
‘Ah, I didn’t teach him how to care for it.’
Windbird Blossoms had to be fed mana every two days, not just when carrying a message.
The flower’s body would then take on the color of that mana.
She needed to listen to the message first, then tell Lionel how to feed it properly.
A whistling sound brushed her ear—the message came.
The moment she heard Lionel’s voice, Lindsay’s hands slipped.
She crushed the branch of the cottonwood tree she was peeling.
The flower, the message delivered, drifted away out of the workshop.
[What’s with you, meow?]
Nero cracked one eye open and stared at the shattered branch in her hand.
Technically, the broken wood wasn’t ruined—if she could peel the bark, she could still use it.
The real problem wasn’t the ingredient.
It was the witch herself, trembling with frustration.
Knowing who had sent the flower, Nero clicked his tongue.
[You get flustered and embarrassed like a four-year-old. With age comes wisdom and calm, but you’re like a pot that boils over instantly.]
Ouch. Right on target.
Lindsay’s shoulders sagged.
He was right. She’d lived over a hundred years, and yet here she was, hopelessly swayed by a kid much younger than her.
Just a little teasing about her blushing, and she lost all composure.
Maybe the problem was when he called her “cute.”
Or maybe it was because she knew, from the novel, that his future ended in such a tragic death.
[It’s that face you keep whining about, isn’t it?]
“…Wait. Did I just say that out loud?”
Nope, she was sure she’d only thought it. So why did Nero respond?
She turned away from the cat’s pitying gaze and focused on peeling the shattered wood.
Lionel’s message had rattled her, but she still had to finish making the day’s potions before tonight’s errand.
Apparently, Nero was thinking the same, because he pointed his paw at the baskets of finished ingredients.
[Come on, toss those into the pot already. At this rate, we’ll miss dinner, meow.]
“Good idea.”
Even if she had to go out tonight, she wasn’t skipping dinner.
Lindsay quickly hung a heavy iron pot on the stand, filled it with water using magic, then piled new logs under it.
A flick of her fingers lit the firewood.
The flames grew, licking the pot. Soon the water boiled, and she dumped in the prepared ingredients.
She added a drop of Rokasnake dissolving fluid—turning the water purple—and stirred carefully to prevent sticking.
Then came a preservation agent. After thirty minutes of simmering, the healing potion would be ready.
‘Okay, today’s potion batch is under control. Now for the important part…’
Her gaze slid to a sack of empty bottles stacked against the wall, right beside rows of glittering ruby-red potions.
That was her real job tonight.
Those bottles contained mana-boosting potions, and she planned to sell them at the underground market.
The place known as the “Deep Market” didn’t care about buyer or seller identities, nor did it check product quality.
Items were listed anonymously, buyers paid a fee to the broker, and the broker set up a secret meeting for the exchange.
Barnes, who ran a small flower shop in the capital, locked up as the sun set.
His “side hustle” was over—now for the real business.
How much commission would he earn tonight?
Dreaming of profits, he pulled aside the curtain at the back of his shop, revealing a tiny ticket-booth-like space that barely fit one person.
He opened a small slot and hung a squid-shaped ornament outside.
That was the sign: open for business.
He shut the slot and pulled out his ledger, scanning the updates from the past half-day.
Sea anemones from Pom-Pom crabs, swamp crocodile teeth, and all sorts of exotic things had been traded.
But one item caught his attention: a hair-growth potion.
Barnes checked the nickname of the buyer. “Butler.”
Common alias for noble house servants.
Whoever bought it they were lucky.
After all, a certain seller nicknamed “the Witch” had recently become famous in the market.
People were lining up for her potions.
Barnes stroked the thick hair at the back of his head with satisfaction.
He’d used that potion himself, and it really worked—new roots sprouted in a day, hair grew in thick.
Word spreading fast was only natural.
With hundreds of sellers and tens of thousands of goods listed daily, only rare or extraordinary things stood out.
The Witch’s potions were both.
Every single one she put up was effective: the hair potion, the… ahem, “stamina booster,” the brain-sharpening brew, the one-hour concentration drink, the skin-whitening powder…
But Barnes cared about only one.
The stamina potion. The one that kept him from fearing the night.
If the Witch put that one up again tonight, he was going to snatch it before it even hit the listings.
That was the perk of being a middleman—he could skim the good stuff.
He chuckled greedily—until someone knocked on the booth window.
A customer.
